


a bird in my hand

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M, Russia, Winter, as written by someone who’s never been to Russia and literally just read tourist guides for hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: For Christmas, Dany takes Pierre home.
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Daniil Kvyat
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	a bird in my hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [p1erregasly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1erregasly/gifts).



> Happy Sinterklaas to all my friends in the Low Countries!!!!!!!!!! I am but a heathen appropriating your culture but I hope you have a nice day with your shoes or what have you. 
> 
> Firstly, thank you to Monday Of Mafia AU Fame. I asked you for help plotting special fic for a special giftee and you gave me the light I needed. You’re a gr9 pal thank you :) 
> 
> Now onto the main dedication:
> 
> Simone, eleven months ago (to the day) I made probably the best decision of my life to talk to someone I _kind_ of knew in passing but wasn’t friends with yet. Now it’s the holidays, and my dad says gratitude is the biggest virtue of all. I disagree with him on a lot of things... but I think he’s right about this one. I am very grateful that I now know what a Best Friend with capital letters is, and I don't think I'll ever stop feeling this way. This ship is just one of many things that I immediately associate with you, and I hope it does them justice somehow. A lot of love went into this, but also into every single message I send you. You know all this, but I think you deserve to hear it again. Happy Sinterklaas!

Despite the slight jet lag, Pierre is awake enough to appreciate the sights on the way to their hotel. Snow covers every inch of the ground, all of Saint Petersburg turned into an ivory wonderland for the holidays. He’s used to light frost in December, but this is special, grandiose.

Pierre watches silently as Dany checks into the hotel and talks to the tersest concierge he’s ever seen. He loves it when Dany speaks Russian; it rarely happens trackside or in Faenza, but when it does, Pierre always takes a moment to appreciate the smooth flow of the words, Dany’s tongue pressing into hissing sounds. His voice acquires a new shape, an entirely different energy, and Pierre feels privileged to witness it. 

The hallways are wide and grandiose and difficult to navigate; he is but a guest in this beautiful, ancient home. He follows Dany to their suite, a lavishly decorated, apartment-sized paradise with a view of Saint Isaac’s Square outside. Pierre has been in many hotel rooms over the years, but this one feels special—likely because of the man he’s sharing it with, even if he refuses to admit it.

“Go take a shower before we go,” Dany says. He throws his backpack on the bed closest to the balcony doors. “And be fast.” 

“But I’m tired,” Pierre complains. The plush blankets look so inviting after a flight filled with loud passengers. “Why don’t we stay and eat here? There’s a restaurant, right?” He remembers seeing a huge restaurant near the lobby. 

Dany tosses a pillow at Pierre’s head. “Because this is the plan,” he says, “and I got the tickets for today. Now go, you smell.” 

Begrudgingly, Pierre drops his bags by the foot of his bed and heads to the bathroom. He locks the door and undresses lazily, slowly, relieved to be out of his damp winter clothes. Behind him is a rack with multiple fluffy white robes, so soft to the touch Pierre wants to sleep in them. 

He messes with the shower knobs until the water hits the sweet spot, a little above lukewarm but not too hot, either. Steam fogs up the glass doors, and with this barrier between himself and the rest of the world, Pierre thinks of Dany, the subtle curve of his lips when he finds something funny, the rough pads of his fingers. 

* * *

Their first stop in Saint Petersburg is at Saint Isaac’s Cathedral, right in front of their hotel. Churches have never been Pierre’s thing, not in the religious sense—he keeps his prayers to the tarmac and the comfort of his own home—but he appreciates the architectural prowess behind this building, the huge white dove under the dome.

He feels _small_ , not in the oppressive way he did in Red Bull meetings but as if he’s cradled in someone’s arms. Dany walks two steps ahead of him, taking in every detail with an enthusiasm Pierre rarely sees in him. 

They speak in whispers even though the cathedral is rarely used for services anymore. In this holy place, he’s allowed to subtly look at Dany the same way he looks at the intricate pillars and the statues. He makes the most out of that opportunity.

When they leave, he remembers more details of Dany’s nose and mouth than he does the iconostasis.

* * *

Afterwards, they head to Moscow Square on the other side of town. 

There’s also a huge statue of someone Pierre skipped too many classes to recognise. His moustache is covered in a thick layer of frost, and his arm is extended as if he’s guiding someone to an unspecified place. It’s pretty good art, Pierre thinks. 

“Hey, take a photo of me,” he says, handing Dany his phone. “Make sure to get him in it.” He points at the statue. 

“You… okay,” Dany says. He sounds very unamused, and Pierre can’t be arsed to figure out why. He just wants this picture. “Of course.”

He squats in front of the statue, mimicking its pointing pose, and smiles for the camera, though his face is mostly hidden by the thick layers of his scarf.

“Ready, three, two, one,” Dany calls. He takes his time, giving Pierre a thumbs up after a couple minutes. “See if you like them.”

Pierre nods approvingly at the pictures, happy with the results. “Thanks,” he says.

Dany chortles. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Comfortable silence falls over them on the way back to their hotel room. Their fingers brush together as they walk, and Pierre gives Dany a coy smile. He likes that Dany doesn’t pull back, doesn’t make any move to avoid touching him. It’s a small thing, nearly imperceptible, but one he’s grateful for. He knows Dany isn’t like this with everyone.

The first thing he sees when he walks into the room is Dany’s blue gig bag resting against the wall. Unfortunately, Pierre’s brain-to-mouth filter is terrible, and the thought comes out before he even thinks better of it: “You should play something for me.”

Dany stares at him almost suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because I want to hear it,” Pierre says. He shrugs, trying to show Dany it’s not a big deal, not in the slightest. He just wants to appreciate Dany’s work. Isn’t that what good friends do?

“Right.” Dany clearly isn’t enthusiastic about the idea, and Pierre decides to push further. Go hard or go home and all that.

“Please?” he insists, sitting on the edge of Dany’s bed, his eyes big and wide like he used to do when he wanted something from his mum. “Come on, just one time and I won’t ask you to do it again, I promise.”

Dany hesitantly pulls his guitar out of its case, looking at Pierre as if to ask: _Happy now?_

(The answer is yes, always yes when it’s by Dany’s side.)

“Thank you,” Pierre says earnestly. 

Dany sits on a chair across from him. Pierre crosses his legs on the bed and rests his chin on his hands. He knows very little of music, but the way Dany cradles the guitar and touches the delicate strings makes him think of an artist working on his craft. It hardly matters if the sound isn’t refined enough, fancy enough; Pierre loves it because it’s Dany. He loves Dany because Dany—

Dany is special, that’s all. 

* * *

They don’t go downstairs for dinner. A woman in a white uniform brings them a tray of Siberian pelmeni and crab, and after they eat, Dany plucks a champagne glass from the coffee table and pours himself some red wine.

“That’s not how you drink wine,” Pierre says, amused. “There’s a different glass for that.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dany says. He slides the balcony doors open and steps out. Chill wind invades the room, so cold Pierre puts on his jacket, much to Dany’s amusement. 

From the (warm) safety of the room, he watches Dany lean against the frost-covered railing and sip his wine, sniffing it like a sommelier. He looks like a rich divorced woman in a romcom. When Pierre points it out, Dany gives him the middle finger.

“You’re so rude,” Pierre complains. 

“Maybe you’re just an asshole.”

Pierre pretends to consider this for a few seconds. “Maybe you’re right.” 

“This is a nice balcony,” Dany says, changing the subject. “It’s a shame you can’t come here and drink with me.” He laughs softly, like Pierre shivering is the funniest joke in the world. 

Pierre sticks out his tongue. Now that he’s got his jacket, he feels slightly more confident to face the cold, and he joins Dany on the balcony, gently taking the champagne flute out of his hands and putting it on the floor behind them. 

Dany immediately wraps his arms around Pierre, pulling him close, and he snorts. Here he is, feeling like a pufferfish in his enormous jacket, and Dany manages to weather the snow in sweatpants and a flimsy shirt. 

“You’re cold,” Dany murmurs. He runs his palms up and down Pierre’s sides, the friction nice and comfortable, heating him up. “I didn’t think you would find it so bad here.”

“I don’t!” Pierre says. His chattering teeth make him feel stupid, but it’s true—this weekend is the most fun he’s ever had. “I’m happy to be here. I just... the cold is really strong.” He presses closer to Dany’s chest, relishes the comfort of his embrace. At least the weather gives him a good excuse to do this.

Dany hums softly. “Good, I’m glad you’re having fun.” His bare hand cups Pierre’s cheek, thumb caressing the faint stubble on his jawline. “You’re too nice to say you hate it anyway.”

Their eyes meet, and Pierre knows what about to happen even before Dany glances down at his purpling lips. He’s not nervous—the opposite, actually. This is right, the final station of a two-year-long train journey. 

Despite knowing Dany so well, Pierre half-expects tentative, exploring, shy. He melts when he gets firm and confident instead, Dany’s other hand slipping down to his lower back, keeping him close.

He sighs into the kiss, opens his mouth for Dany. His mouth is so cold he barely feels Dany moving against him, but it’s the proximity that does it for him, their noses brushing against each other. 

“Oh wow,” Pierre murmurs. Dany’s white-cloud breath tickles his lips. “Do that again, it was nice.”

Dany does it again. And again, and again, and again, until Pierre gets the upper hand and manages to drag him back into the room.

He pushes Dany down on the (warm, blessedly warm) bed, kisses him breathless, his heart fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird trapped in the cage of his ribs. This, Pierre thinks, this is the kind of winter vacation they write novels about. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Marina Tsvetaeva’s _Poems for Blok_ :
> 
> _Your name is a—bird in my hand,_  
>  _a piece of ice on my tongue._
> 
> Everything about the hotel was lifted from reviews of the Astoria near St. Isaac’s Cathedral.
> 
> Pierre is taking a pic with the Vladimir Lenin statue in front of the House of Soviets at Moscow Square. I don't think he would actually not recognise Lenin but the thought is funny and has been in my head since I started writing this.
> 
> I am SORRY for being lousy and not including every other beautiful landmark of St. Petersburg. I’m a short form writer and that is my downfall.
> 
> I’m on Tumblr at nicorosberg if you want hot F1 takes :)


End file.
